


what love looks like

by evenmyneck (stopmopingstarthoping)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Fluff, Petra is a queen, Weddings, adoration, dorothea pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28921437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopmopingstarthoping/pseuds/evenmyneck
Summary: A few little vignettes illustrating the points along the way where Dorothea fell in love with Petra.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	what love looks like

“What does the beach look like to you, Dorothea? In Adrestia, I mean.”

They’ve found a stream and are swimming; Dorothea, a city child, is wading in the shallows, humming lightly at the cool comfort and the motion of the water against her skin.

Caspar cannonballs; Hubert gives a disapproving sniff; Ferdinand is already running, trying to outdo him.

She looks up. “I’ve never been to the beach.” It’s true. She can’t even swim all that well, but it doesn’t matter. The light dapples on the rocks at the bottom of the stream, and sun lights the back of the leaves, turning them a brilliant green. She stirs idle fingertips through the surface of the water. 

What is it about Petra, that pulls these simple, direct words from her every time? If it had been anyone else, she’d have dissembled, flirted, deflected. These little crumbs about her life might seem worthless to someone else, but they’re what Dorothea has, and she finds them hard to give to people. Most people, anyway.

Petra looks at her, all surprise and a little regret. It’s never pity, with her, and Dorothea appreciates that more than she can say.

She’s standing on a rock toward the middle of the river, and Dorothea just looks at her, full of athletic ease, proudly balanced on what is probably, to her, an odd rock in a foreign land. Her shoulders are broad and strong, her voice never wavers despite thinking in one language and speaking in another. A daring plum gaze finds Dorothea’s own, and she lets a tiny smirk quirk her lips before Petra swan dives into the deep part of the river.

Petra surfaces, and flicks long, braided hair out of the water with her usual unconscious beauty. Dorothea thinks about sirens, about mermaids, about fantastical creatures who mesmerize, and then she laughs out loud. 

Its half self-effacing, her laugh, but half pure enjoyment for the frivolous thing of it alone; sparkling water droplets land on Dorothea’s upper arm, and everything feels fresh and light and happy. It’s temporary, she knows, but that maybe more than anything else makes her immerse herself in it. She splashes Edie and giggles, hoping to start a war.

* * *

“What does the enemy position look like to you, Petra?” Dorothea wipes sweaty hair back from her face and flicks her gaze to the stalwart fighter by her side. Petra has just landed from reconnaissance; and her wyvern, Vada, screeches mightily from a few yards away.

“It looks…” Petra gets a frustrated look on her face and grabs at some pebbles, impatiently clearing a space with her booted foot. She quickly lays out their position with the little rocks, and Dorothea watches her face process information, thinking about what she’d seen and how to convey it to their little gathering. As before, Dorothea is floored by her cleverness, the speed with which she’s able to distill this and provide it to them. Petra taps her cheek, calloused finger tapping just below the deep purple triangle on her cheekbone.

Irrationally, Dorothea wants to kiss it. To kiss her, to sweep her away from all this.

“We should pinch them. Two groups.”

She’s already devising a plan. Unlike Dorothea, Petra isn’t disheartened by all the conflict, all the ugliness. She’s energized. She doesn’t _like_ the fact that it’s come to this, clearly, but leadership burns brightly within her. She wants it to end, just like Dorothea does, but unlike her own self, Petra throws herself into the fray so that she can drag it toward completion.

She’s fierce, and brilliant, and glorious. Dorothea wants to cry for the fact that she’s here scrabbling in the dirt and not in a big beautiful house, being doted on and appreciated.

She listens dutifully for her part in the plan, and when she can, twines her fingers through Petra’s, disregarding the dirt as she quickly presses them to her lips. “For luck.”

“We shall not be needing luck, my lady.” Petra winks at the last two words, and the idea of being _hers_ sends Dorothea into the battle with something more solid in her chest for the first time in months.

* * *

“What does your future look like, Petra?”

Gauzy white curtains billow in the breeze; and they have nowhere to be but here. Silk sheets, fruit, and wine; if it wasn’t for Petra’s still-fading bruises, you’d think there had never been a war. They lounge, languid and sated, and Dorothea’s eyes travel the peaks and valleys of Petra’s body, a finger trailing in time with her tender gaze.

She looks quizzical, and Dorothea laughs. “An idiom, I’m sorry. What are your plans--for the weeks and months after this?”

“Brigid has need of me.” 

Dorothea nods, sliding her hands over Petra’s body to avoid the growing lump in her throat. Petra catches Dorothea’s hand in one of hers, fingertips stroking gently at the dark magic fissures there.

“I have not been learning all of the traditions of Fodlan; however I am thinking it is not correct to be making a marriage proposal without clothing.”

Dorothea’s laugh is low and throaty, despite the tears forming; and Petra’s lush, answering call turns into something more passionate as they light the spark anew.

* * *

They are married at the top of a vibrant, green hill, and their wedding regalia streams merrily in the wind: a sign of good luck, they are told. 

They don’t need luck, Dorothea thinks.

There are so many words, and all in Brigid’s tongue. While she’d been learning, every time Dorothea’s tongue had tripped over a new phrase or sound, she had thought of Petra, alone, fighting for everything she held dear in an unfamiliar land. She had been so brave, so beautiful, so bold. Dorothea had resolved anew to deserve her.

This day, this breezy, Brigid afternoon, Dorothea does her new wife proud, using all her training to roll her voice in the proper cadence and rhythm. The expressions on the guests’ faces hold sincere appreciation; she knows how to read an audience.

As the traditional vows conclude, Dorothea adds a few more words for her beloved. 

“My darling Petra. You have never asked me to be anything other than precisely who I am. That, to me, is what love looks like.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm still not done with CF but I love these ladies together!


End file.
